Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I could call the cops, I suppose, and tell them Luca’s harassing me. I could perhaps get a restraining order, too.
But I can’t bring myself to do any of those things.
It’s not just about his criminal records. In a small town like Ashbourne, news travels fast, and a restraining order would bring this whole thing a few notches up in gossip-worthiness. I don’t need that kind of attention.
On top of that, I also don’t want Luca’s drug-seeking ways to cost him his business.
Maybe I’m being too soft on him, but I’ve seen how much addiction can change people—when our dad died in a freak accident, Peter shut down and buried himself in all kinds of substances, legal and illegal.
I can’t really blame Peter, though. He was only eighteen and nobody expected our dad to die at the young age of thirty-seven. He was just running some errands when a speeding car careened into him and killed in instantly.
All of a sudden, there was a heavy burden on Peter’s shoulders. He had to run the clinic, make enough money to pay the bills, and take care of me, too.
I mean, just his work alone was stressful enough. Statistics say that nearly one in ten veterinarians in the country suffer psychological distress, and more than one in six have had suicidal thoughts. This job drains you.
Luckily, somehow we managed to convince everyone to let me stay with him.
Getting out of that hole was difficult for Peter. I can’t imagine making Luca go through that and deal with the loss of his business at the same time.
I wonder if my own issues give me a soft spot for addicts.
I open my car door and twist to look Luca in the face before I step inside. He watches me closely, like he’s afraid he’s going to miss my words.
“Go home, Luca. Or I’ll call the cops on you.” It’s just an empty threat, but I have to say it. I want him to realize how serious this is.
“I’m not going home until you agree to talk to me,” Luca says stubbornly.
I let out a big sigh as I take my seat in the car.
“I’ll wait here. I’ll be here when you get home. Whenever you’re ready to talk to me, I’ll—”
Luca’s voice shrinks into a barely intelligible muffle when I pull the door shut.
I put on my seatbelt, turn on the engine, and drive away. Luca’s reflection on my rear-view mirror gets smaller and smaller, but again, thoughts of him continue to follow me wherever I go.
After I stock up on some groceries and send a few letters at the post office, I drive home, taking the long way to peek at Luca’s tattoo shop.
It’s closed—no surprise there.
Judging by the pile of envelopes building up by the mailbox, Luca hasn’t been here at all. Or, if he has, he’s been ignoring his mail. He could miss something important, like a bill, and end up having to close the tattoo parlor down, at least temporarily.
A small drop of water wets my windscreen, and I lift my gaze up to the heavens. It’s still early in the afternoon, but the sky is dark and the clouds are hanging low, heavily pregnant with rain.
My mind flies to Luca and his stupid car, waiting just outside my clinic. By the looks of it, he’s going to spend a few hours just sitting in his car today.
When I reach the clinic, the light drizzle has turned into a full-blown storm. But unexpectedly, Luca’s not sitting inside his car where it’s warm and dry.
Instead, he’s standing in the middle of the parking lot, water drenching his whole body. My mom’s with him, and they seem to be shouting at each other over the sound of the rain. Hands are flying in the air as they both make enraged, aggressive gestures at each other.
Great. The two junkies left in my life, arguing right outside my home.
When I first met Luca at the funeral, he mentioned a bunch of junkies who were supposedly after the drugs stored inside the clinic. Now, I wonder if he was referring to himself and his friends—not that I ever saw him hanging out with a bunch of thin, angry-looking junkies . . . But I never saw him with my mom either, and yet, here they are.
“Ah! There she is!” Mom declares when she sees me stepping out of my car with an open umbrella.
They looked like they were engrossed in their argument so I was hoping to go inside unnoticed, but obviously that’s not going to happen now.
“My smart girl,” my mom says as she comes over, raindrops dripping down her black waterproof coat.
I frown. I’ve been called “smart” before, but never by my mom.
“Mom, I don’t have time for whatever this is.” I keep walking, carrying two plastic bags full of groceries with one hand.